The Big Boom [re-writing]

7:35 am [updated]

7: 35 am

I felt his fingers lace into mine and I looked down to see them intertwined as we walked, uncomfortable. "We're just friends," I said.

"Friends can hold hands, right? At least until we get breakfast?"

I adverted my gaze. "Sure," I tried to say casually.

After napping, cleaning up the rough corners of his bedroom, and feeding each of his eight dogs, we both knew that even though the actual day had only come to a start, it was coming to a close for us. But to elongate that deadline, Christopher, knowing that we haven't had any real food in us in much too long, suggested this one breakfast buffet he thought would 'blow my pretty, little head off'.

You should've seen it, Sarah.

It was a part of the Salvador Dali museum, on the fifth floor, that escaped off the margins of this humungous, swan-populated lake. Absolutely mesmerizing.

Through the glass structure that made up the very filaments of this building, you could see people streaming by room to room, catering dishes, dining, altering stories by the crystal-clear elevators, the crowded and colorful galleries.

Christopher tugged on my hand, closing my open jaw with his finger. "Stared enough? Let's eat."

We made it to the large dining room where various breakfasts on silver platters were served. Tabletops clothed with thick, white linen formed an organized maze so you could peruse by each individual dish and add however much you wanted of it to your plate. There were crispy strips of bacon, croissants, cheese platters, untouched mediocre cereal, fresh fruit, straight-from-the-kitchen sausages and patties, piled-high pancakes, hash browns, every possible form potatoes could take, fresh ground coffee, and more.

If you were here, you would've said, "Oh my god oh my god oh my god," as you made an instant B-line to the mountainous pastry table since you were always a sweet tooth. The dessert-before-dinner type of person.

The entire floor was too much to take in as a whole, so I looked down.

When I looked down, I saw my feet floating above the fourth floor. I was suspended in mid-air from the accompaniment of a pristine glass flooring, the hectic rush of people buzzing and zipping through activities and galleries beneath my shoes. When I looked up, a plane of mirrored ceiling stared back at me so there couldn't be any perverted peepers in this place. Bursts of bright colors popped here and there, and it took quite the energy to look back to the floor I was actually on.

I lifted my gaze to have them land on Christopher, three whole croissants stuffed in his mouth.

"What?" He said, his voice muffled.

I stifled a laugh and began piling my own plate modestly. A richly, warm chocolate pastry crumbled with my fingers as I picked it up, my own mouth watering. And the bacon! You could still hear it sizzling. The waffles came out with the ding! of a distant oven and came out in wondrous stacks to join the family. This was real food.

By the end of the montage of wholesome goods were laid out upside-down champagne flutes to fill your beverage in.

"Where the hell is the champagne?" Christopher asked as he picked a glass up, swerving his head left and right at the surrounding tables. "Who presents champagne flutes without serving any actual champagne?"

"This is a breakfast buffet, Christopher," I said.

He clicked his tongue. "This is an even bigger tease than the dress you're wearing."

I rolled my eyes and held up a jug. "Orange juice?"

With his arms crossed, he eyed the jug in my hand and then to the arrangement of drinks to my left. "Chocolate milk," He muttered.